


5 (more or less) fortunate meetings

by Sunnytyler001



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, if you like daenerys don't read, no jonsa this time sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnytyler001/pseuds/Sunnytyler001
Summary: Sansa and the Prince of Dorne met before the Dragon Pit meeting, and after, between Autumn and Winter(The Prince is also called Allaric in this one, but it's not the same story as "A dream of Winter and Summer")





	5 (more or less) fortunate meetings

I

Allaric Sand had followed his ardent cousin, the Red Viper, to King’s Landing. Not by choice, though. He would have gladly stayed in Sunspear, by Prince Doran’s side, or gone home to Caedas. King’s Landing was too noisy and dirty for his tastes. The misery in its streets was heartbreaking, and frankly, he would have had rather endured the burning sun of the desert during the hottest summer than come to this vipers’ nest.

Vipers? No. He knew those and their poisons. He had learnt how to deal with their capricious behaviour and survive their bites. Lions, on the other hand, were another matter.

In their palace of thorns, courtly monsters were everywhere, spying for the smallest sign of weakness, waiting to jump on you and devour you. He pitied the fools who ever decided to live in the capital. The Father was his witness, he pitied himself for having to stay in such a place for only a couple of weeks, and having to socialize with its fauna.

Another day, another time-wasting ball with the same sorry faces. He recognized the Tyrells speaking with Lord Tyrion Lannister. Oh dear, they were not coming his way, were they ?

They were, but his good cousin Oberyn came to his rescue.

« Lord Allaric » started the Lannister drunkard number 2 - Queen Cersei being number one -, before being interrupted by Oberyn.

« My Lords, Lady Sansa, please forgive us, I need to speak with my kinsman – an important matter- I am sure you understand! »

When Allaric heard her name, he realized he had not been paying attention. But here she was, the prettiest maiden he had ever laid eyes on, her red hair surrounding the most delicate traits in the Seven kingdoms. She curtsied gracefully in front of him, before offering him a kind, but sad, smile.

Her eyes, too, seemed to be strangely shining with the same melancholy, which made her even more beautiful.

But then Oberyn was taking him far from the crowd, and far from the unhappy maiden. Once they were far away, Allaric couldn’t help himself and asked for the lady’s name.

« The Red head? Oh cousin! For once, you’re interrested in another human being and you pick her of all the pretty girls and boys in the capital? Forget her. She’s already married anyway. »

Allaric stopped and looked at his cousin with astonishment.

« But she looks so young! »

« She is. But the Lannisters wanted the Key to the North in their pocket, so they forced her to marry the dwarf. As if murdering her father and her whole pack hadn’t been enough. »

His heart broke as Oberyn kept on his sorrowfull tale. What a tragedy. Of course, he already knew this story, the Starks were one of the Great Houses of Westeros, and Prince Doran had had much respect for Ned Stark. However, meeting his daughter, and seeing her there, surrounded by enemies, was a different thing.

« Forget Sansa Stark… or rather Sansa Lannister, cousin. There is no saving her. And you are no Prince Aemon, anyway. Oh look! Ellaria has a new dress. Doesn’t she look stunning? »

She did. Ellaria always looked ravishing, but Allaric’s heart was already taken by the red Stark girl with the sad smile. Of course, Oberyn was right, there was nothing he could do, not without putting Dorne in danger and complicating the relationship between the Lannisters and the Martells.

But he dared to dream that, one day, he could see her, and this time, she would be happy, and smiling.

II

The second time he met her, she was not smiling either, even though her position had changed immensely.

Lady Lannister no more, Sansa Stark was standing high and proud, looking down at them all, and the Gods knew she had deserved it. She was going to be a judge at her former husband’s trial, the Queen who had forced her to marry him was dead, and the one who had tried to conquer her home had also met her bitter end.

Quite a Victory Day for the Lady Stark. But still, she did not look happy. She seemed worried, preoccupied. Was it her husband’s fate ? No, she did not seem to love him very much. Her brother, then. Jon Snow, the Queenslayer that Yara Greyjoy wanted so much to see dead. Then again, there was nothing he could do. Taking a position would mean having to drop his act of lazy, nonchalent idiot, and it was much too soon. Dorne’s independence was his priority. It had to be. His people were counting on him.

She didn’t seem to remember him either, which pained him a little. A small stab in his heart, but only natural, really. They had not even been formally introduced all those years ago. He had been taken by her the moment he had seen her. That did not mean the feeling had to be reciprocated. Besides, at the time, she had been married to a man whose family she hated, and surrounded by hungry lions. Of course she would not have noticed him.

Now, still, she could see him, in all his Martell glory, golden robes and all. Though Allaric wished she would see his real self: intelligent, well-read, devoted to his people, and desparatly in love with her. His mask of foolishness was heavy today, more than ever. He had his looks, of course, but he doubted they would be enough to seduce her. He was tall, and people always said he was rather comely. Also, the robes he wore were quite flattering. He was no Targaryen Prince, of course, but he was not unattractive either, and, anyway, he had heard she was not really fond of dragons.

It had been frustrating not getting a single opportunity to talk to her before the meeting. The bloody thing seemed endless, and every thrity seconds, he felt like jumping out of his very uncomfortable chair to call all of those Lords idiots.

Why were they taking Grey Worm’s orders? Wasn’t the man and his troops war criminals who had ravished a surrending city? Hadn’t he been killing Lannister soldiers after his Queen’s terrible victory, while they had been already defeated?

What were Lord Davos, Lord Manderly and the Tarly boy doing here, sitting at the High Council, as if they were High Lords? And look at them, talking as if they had any power, taking decisions for the rest of them, as if they had any right to do so…

And why in the Seven Hells were they even listening to Lord Tyrion? He didn’t know. He did not want to. It made no sense. Nothing made sense, really. Lord Snow had killed Daenerys Targaryen – didn’t that make him a hero? The woman had burnt and destroyed the capital, after all. All the civilians – men, women, and children - dead by her hand. And since her dragon had taken the body, why had he told everyone what he had done? A fool, worse than Florian, in truth.

When Lord Tully had made his case for the throne, he had been ready to laugh, but Sansa Stark’s cold remark to her uncle had made it die in his throat. She used to be the Maiden, now here she was, the Mother to all those great Lords, teaching them their places. Gods, he loved her and never wanted to let her go. He would have to, of course. Once again, Dorne had to be his priority. Dorne, and Ellaria, who was probably moping in some dark jail inside the Red Keep.

The choice of Bran ‘the Broken’ Stark as their king made no sense whatsoever, but at this stage, Allaric had just plainly given up. And, after all, it did not matter. Soon they would separate from Westeros and declare themselves independent. Whoever was on the throne, they did not care.

Still, Allaric’s intelligence felt attacked: that dwarf was a prisoner, but here he was playing a game, and trying to manipulate them. Had he the best interests of the realm in mind, he should have chosen the Red Wolf. He did not think that because he liked her, but because it was the most logical choice. Lady Sansa had the most experience, politically; her mentors had been Cersei Lannister and Littlefinger, and from what he had heard, she had confronted Daenerys several times, asked for the North’s independence and lived to tell the tale. Also, her story was as good as her brother’s. For that matter, so was his, and everyone else’s at this stupid meeting. That was the reason why he was not very fond of people. So much foolishness in so little space, he felt slightly nauseous. He just wanted to go fetch Ellaria and go home, when suddenly he heard Lady Sansa ask her brother for Northern independence. No, she was not asking, or demanding. She was declaring it, as simple as that.

Well, maybe there was a subject they could start a conversation with. If he ever had the chance to talk with her…

III

Sansa looked at the sea and felt heartbroken. She remembered, as a child, looking at the boats with her handmaiden Shae and trying to imagine their story. That one was going to Dorne, and this one? To the Summer Isles. Now, she was watching two other boats, sailing away, so very far from her, leaving her on her own, in this godsforsaken place. One was taking Jon to his place of exile, beyond the Wall, where she would never ever see him again. The other was taking Arya on some extremely dangerous adventures, in some undiscovered land.

She thought herself selfish for a moment, but she just wished they had stayed with her, only for a moment more. She had fought all her life to get back to her family, and now, they would never be together again. Bran would stay in King’s Landing, as their king, Jon would be at Castle Black, and Arya would be Gods know where. And she would be the Stark in Winterfell, Queen-in-the-North, but all alone.

Sansa cursed despite herself. Hadn’t they said and repeated how the pack survived? And now, look at them, each of them in separate parts of Westeros. She would need another sworn shield too, as it seemed that Bran was about to recruit Brienne. Once again, she felt a little upset, but she could not let her friend pass such an opportunity. For a knight, to be part of the King’s guard was the greatest honour and achievement. She was happy for her. However, who could replace her? Sandor Clegane’s name was the first to come to her mind, but Arya had told her he had died during the destruction of King’s Landing. Mayhaps Ser Lothor, then? She had met him during her time in the Eyrie, and he had reminded her of the Hound a little.

But no one would ever equal Brienne. Or Arya. Or Jon.

Aye, she would have her crown, and she would be a queen: but no one she cared about would chant her name, no one she loved would smile at her the way she had smiled at Jon when he had been named King, no one would stand besides her and hold her hand.

Suddenly, she saw a crowd agglutinated in front of the jail’s gate. Some people were talking in a very animated fashion, and it tickled her curiosity.

« The Prince of Dorne wants to enter! Do you realize who he is? », a Dornish soldier said with an accent that reminded her of another time, when she was still a little bird, trapped in Cersei’s golden cage.

« Don’t care who he is. No one is to enter. Orders from above! », grumbled some very rude guard.

The Prince of Dorne. Yes, she remembered the man. They had briefly met at some ball in honour of Margaery Tyrell. In her memories, she had been wearing some flowery purple dress to please her friend, with her dragonfly necklace. It had been one of those days where she felt more hopeless than usual, haunted by the ghosts of her lost friends and relatives. The Dornishs’ arrival, though, had been a nice distraction. At the time, the current Prince had been one of the Lords in Prince Oberyn’s suite. Quite a handsome man, as she recalled, tall, graceful, with slightly curled, black hair, and very elegant hands. She might have been fixing him a bit too long, as she remembered hearing her husband chuckling in his wine, taking her hand, and leading her to the man in question. The expression on his face had been painful to see. A scowl and an annoyed wince. It was obvious he had had no intention to socialize with them. And quite right, too. How could an enamoured young girl have interrested a Dornish Lord? Sansa laughed a little at her own foolishness. She had curtsied, as a lady, even as embarrassed as she had been, always remembered her manners, and had still offered him a shy smile. He had barely looked at her, before fleeing at the arm of his cousin, Prince Oberyn. Well, that had been nice of him to save them both from more mortifying discomfort. She had made a fool of herself that day. Now, having to speak with the same man in a formal context had seemed easier. She played her part as Lady of Winterfell, kept on her mask of neutral courtesy, and it had been all. It had been as if they had never met. Maybe the Prince had pretended that awful scene had never happened, but it was even more probable he did not recall it. Whatever it was, Sansa was grateful for it.

Still, mayhaps she could help him with the guards, as she realized she knew them. The crowd parted as she passed, some whispers prounoncing her name in awe, others in scorn.

« Why, Ser Anton. What a delightful surprise… »

The guard looked at her, and his face suddenly lost all its colour. He had been one of Joffrey’s guards, she recalled. His blows had been vicous and strong, leaving her black and blue for days, but, she also remembered he had helped her once to stand. His wicked ways had been more to please his king rather than for his own pleasure, as it had been for Ramsey.

« I know you… the Stark girl. »

Sansa nodded and smiled, always trying to keep her composure.

« Aye, I am. Do you know what else I am? »

« Queen in the North, I heard. »

The more this conversation kept going, the more panicked the former knight was. She knew this was wicked of her – worthy of Cersei, really - but she was enjoying it. Still, she would not use her title of queen as an argument to win this game. Tywin Lannister’s words came to her mind: A true king – or a queen in her case - did not need to keep telling his status to everyone. One is king, or one is not. She promised herself she would remember them and act appropriately.

« And sister to your new King. Now, this gentleman is a friend of the crown. One of my brother’s loyal subjects », Sansa added, while her brain was calculating how many lies she had just said. Friend? Loyal? She was not so sure of that. Dorne had always been fiercely independant. She had been rather surprised when the Prince and Lady Yara had not both declared their freedom. Of course, it had been her fault, partly. She had tricked them, letting them all swear fealty to Bran, leaving her decision for last.

« I am sure he has good reasons to go inside, if he wants to. Would you be so kind to allow him to? » There she was, playing every trick she had learnt from Margaery Tyrell, smiling sweetly at the poor man, until he bowed his head in defeat. She would have to light a candle to the Maiden for her old friend, and hope she would stay by her side as long as she needed her.

« Another ghost to dance with, dear Jenny », whispered a voice in her head that sounded like Theon’s.

The Prince of Dorne approached her and bowed respectfully.

« I thank you, your Grace. It seems you have saved me from an enormous embarrasement. »

Remembering their history, Sansa could not help herself but laugh. Mayhaps he would forgive and forget what had happened all those years ago, now? Mayhaps they could even establish a diplomatic agreement and trades between the North and Dorne.

She barely held a gasp and blushed when the Prince took her hand and kissed it softly, before rushing inside the jail. That man was indeed very skilled at taking her breath away, and making her feel like a stupid little girl, with her very foolish little heart beating a little too fast.

IV

So he truly was the last of the Martells. He had still had hope – foolish hope, really - that Ellaria would still be alive, somewhere in a dark Westerosi cell under the Red Keep. But the only thing he found was two rotting corpses, bound to the walls. One had seemed to die a long time before the other. The second one had been in an awful shape, some remains of rats and other rodents surrounding it. Cersei had probably killed the daughter in front of the mother, before leaving her to die without any food or drink, forgotten from the world, in that dreadful place.

What a terrible fate. Allaric had had no love for Ellaria – mostly after what she had done to Doran and Trystane. But she was still a fellow Dornish, and a member of the Martell family. It had been his duty to come and rescue her, whatever the cost. He had been in a hurry to leave the Dragon pit meeting and accomplish his duty as soon as possible and thought that his status would allow him to enter the jails without any problems, but it had been a mistake. Those guards were insolent and lazy. In Sunspear, such behaviour would not have been tolerated. But they were not in Dorne, and it seemed his title as Prince meant nothing to those jailers.

Then, she had appeared. Her long bright hair clashing with the darkness of her dress. Her expression was serene, as she talked to the guard. In a moment, the situation was resolved and he could pass. Allaric had only one desire in that instant: to stay with Lady Stark and start a conversation on whatever subject might interest her, as long as he could be in her presence. He realized he craved her even more than before. But he still thought Ellaria alive and waiting for him to rescue her. So he only kissed his benefactor’s hand before rushing inside those thrice-damned cells, where only death and dissapointment were expecting him.

And now, here he was, at the haven, watching ships go by. He had seen Queen Daenerys’ Lord commander, Grey Worm, sailing towards Naath. What in Seven hells did it mean? Had stupidity really contaminated them all? Didn’t he know of the butterflies on that island and their lethal bite? Well, if this was his choice of death, who was he to stop him? His lover was probably expecting him, and so were all those innocents he had killed during the sacking of King’s Landing. The madness and the foolishness of them all. Soon he would get back to Dorne, and rule as best as he could. He would also give his land its freedom, whatever the cost. He hoped the Queen in the North would help his cause, as a fellow independist, but mayhaps it was too much to ask. She now had a country to lead, Lords to keep under control: she would probably have no time for him or for Dorne. An alliance still would benefit them both. After all, the North had lost most of their food supplies after having to feed two dragons and four armies. Dorne could provide that, in exchange of their support. In Allaric’s wildest dreams, he would also negotiate a Dornish-Northerner wedding, but that would have to stay a fantasy.

« Did you find what you were looking for ? », asked a familiar voice behind him.

She was standing behind him, tall and majestic as a statue of the Maiden herself. Allaric offered her a smile and a respectful bow.

« Unfortunately no, your Grace. As you might have guessed, Ellaria Sand died, as did Tyene, her last daughter. The blood of my cousin is extinct, I am afraid. »

Sansa Stark stared at him from head to toe, and sat on a stone bench close to him. After a sigh, she offered him a look full of compassion and shared grief.

« This is not quite true, Prince Allaric. You are still alive, and as long as you live, and you thrive, the line of Morgan Martell won’t disappear. » She smiled kindly at him before turning back to the desolated landscape facing them. « Rule Dorne, and rule it well. This is the only way you can honour the fallen. »

The Prince understood quite well that this advice was for him, as well as for her. Ruling the North well, insuring its independence, that was her way of honouring her dead family. Rebuilding Winterfell for her Lord father, fighting for the North’s independence for her brother, the Young Wolf.

But what about her own hopes and dreams? Didn’t she have any of her own? Surely such a young maiden had some fancies she would only admit to her closest friends. For one second, Allaric hoped he could be or become one of those, picturing the restrained, calculating Queen in the North blushing and giggling at the mere mention of his name, as a girl in love would. But then, this was not her, was it? Once upon a time, she might have been, but not anymore. Those monsters had crushed her innocence, burnt it to the ground, and then, when no one expected it, the Lady of Winterfell had risen from her ashes, becoming more powerful than any of her tormentors. How he admired her.

Suddenly taken by the moment, Allaric closed the distance between the two of them and kissed the young lady he so much longed for. Her lips were soft, and for a delightfully wonderful moment, he held her in his arms, the sea wind blowing away her fiery silken tresses and their sorrows. But unexpectedly, Allaric realized with shock she was not reciprocating his fervor. On the contrary, Sansa Stark had turned into a statue of pure ice, starring at him in horror.

In an instant, she stood up, probably cursing him to the worst part of the Seven hells, ready to release the same hounds that had devoured her second husband. And with reason, he admitted, the bitter bite of utter guilt and shame tormenting his heart and soul. She had flown the scene, quicker than one of those summer birds, not even looking back at him. Oh yes, of course, she had given him her goodbyes, as she was courtesy incarnated, but her compliments were short and lacking of any kind of sincerity.

His fault, enterily his fault. 

What had he done? Kissing a lady – a queen - without her permission?

It seemed that he had ruined everything: the start of his friendship with the lady he loved, and the possible alliance between Dorne and the North. Not only was he an awful man, but also a calamitous politician.

Prince Doran was probably rolling in his grave.

V

« The Queen in the North ! », proclaimed Lord Glover

« The Queen in the North ! », chanted back the Northern Lords assembled in the great hall of Winterfell.

She had made it. She was the Queen. Something at the back of her mind told her Margaery Tyrell would have been proud, Daenerys Targaryen would have been outraged, and Cersei Lannister would have been a bit of both.

She was happy, and yet, as Petyr Baelish would have pointed out, something was missing. Something she did not have. It was rather simple to guess what it was. Neither Jon nor Arya were there, and Bran was too busy chasing the last dragon in the South to come to his sister’s coronation.

The moment she had arrived to Winterfell, she had sent a letter, pardonning Jon for his crimes and inviting him to come back home, but the answer she had received from Castle Black had astonished her. Jon had already left, but not in the direction of the Starks’ castle. He was going North – or rather what his friend Tormund called the « True North », beyond the Wall.

Sansa sighed in defeat. Was this truly his wish? To live among the Wildlings, in some frozen forest?

Well, this idea did not suit Sansa, but Jon had always been very different from her. Though at some point, she recalled, they had had the same goals, and he had seemed to care so much for her. That had been before Lord Tyrion’s letter, and before the Dragon Queen had danced into their lives.

A life among Tormund’s people also meant freedom – freedom to be whoever he wanted – not a bastard, not a king, not the heir to the Iron throne, but just Jon, a simple man with no ambition. Freedom also to love whoever he liked. That could not be said of her. Barely crowned and already the Lords were pressing her to find a husband and produce heirs. She had husbands before, and hated every moment of it. Tyrion had sent some letters, posing the idea that he might be interested in the position, but the mere thought made her skin crawl. She had no ill thought against him, but she did not want to become his wife in truth. Besides, had he not one he truly loved? Shae had told her once of this girl, Tisha? He had loved and lost her because of his family. Maybe Bran could find her for him? Of course, Sansa knew her former Lord husband’s proposal had nothing to do with feelings, and everything with power, and control, and his foolish hope to become King in the North. The White Walkers might come again and take her if she let that ever happen.

« No one will ever marry me for love », Sansa thought bitterly. « They all want my crown, and the North, and my name, but never me. »

Then, her traitorous mind wandered to King’s Landing haven, and beyond the Narrow Sea, to Dorne and the palace of Sunspear.

The Prince had kissed her that day. And like a silly little bird, she had flown away. Her lack of maturity still dazzled her. How would Cersei have reacted to the Prince’s advances? And Margaery? They would have probably lost themselves in his warm embrace and taken him to their bed. But she was not them. First of all, she would never dishonour herself in such a way, or act improperly. Secondly, how could she be certain of his sincerity. Of course, he had seemed true, and his kiss had left her speechless, but on the other hand, it could have been part of some game to win her trust and gain control over the North. Or mayhaps, he was feeling lonely and bored, and had decided to seduce her to pass the time before leaving her alone and ashamed in one of the Red Keep’s bedrooms.

Was he that kind of man? Sansa did not know, except for the sulphurous reputation of his countrymen. She was a queen now, and intended to remain so. Throwing away her good name and reputation on a whim could have catastrophic consequences, she knew that all too well. Robb and Jon had lost their crowns because of love, she would not make the same mistake.

But now, here he was, in Winterfell, as if fate wanted to test her once again. Tall, with kind eyes and a bush of wavy dark hair. He looked elegant too, in his golden robes, and she felt her weak heart awakening despite her doubts and fears.

He approached her throne quietly, before bowing respectfully. He seemed worried and nervous, which made Sansa smile. Did he fear she would reprimand him for the stolen kiss? Now, this seemed the behaviour of some blushing squire, not the one of a Dornish Lord sure of his charms.

« Your Grace », he began, before taking a breath to gain some assurance, « I come to you in hope of a commercial agreement, between the North and Dorne »

Sansa looked at the Prince, hesitation eating her inside up. Could she trust him? Was he another monster come to destroy or take everything she had fought and bled for, or would he be a true friend? Could she let herself love again, or was she doomed to stay on her guard for the rest of her days ? Trying her best to hide her fear an apprehensions, Sansa watched the Prince, and stared into his gaze. She remembered Joffrey and his honeyed smiles and lies, but he always had an arrogant demanor she would have seen, had she been trained to the game from childhood. She saw none of it in Allaric Martell. Only kindness, and respect, and hope, and … was it love? Mayhaps not so soon. She held her hand to him, and he took it, his nervousness fading away, as her behaviour seemed to warm up to his presence.

Mayhaps she could give him a chance. Mayhaps she could let the terrible ghosts of her past melt as snow in the Spring, and let the Summer shine in her heart.

THE END.


End file.
